P34C3

CJM

Soul of a Poet by Lady Compassion

There's nothing like Los Angeles when you're speeding through its hills drunk and chain smoking. Eyes hollowed and pink from the alcohol. Winding over Laurel Canyon into the valley through the cool night air. Ambition carving over the goosebumps on your neck; preserving the chaos tornadoing from the exhaust. Sometimes it feels good, even right, to be the asshole. Leaving parties in a drunken flurry; people yelling, blood stains and sirens.

Scattered feelings composed a collage of distant dreams during blacked out nights. I started to believe that I was worse than I was, and I needed to drink to forget what I had already forgotten.
As a result, life became a bit forgotten.

I woke up hungover one morning to my sister dangling a pair of yellow tinted sunglasses in front of me. Usually she greeted me by saying, "man, you really fucked up last night." But this time she asked me if I wanted to go for a drive. I admire her. I remember my insides crawling, like they did every day back then. The world was a dark yellow as I slunk into our car.

We parked blocks away from the beach and walked through the residential canal area of Venice. The trees swayed to a late summer breeze. We talked about college and what she wanted to do after she quit working at Starbucks. She seemed a sad kind of happy. Like she was becoming. It reminded me of when I first went through my withdrawal, back when I had to quit soccer. Back when I found digital reality. You can't teach people to be okay with themselves. It's something they have to learn on their own. Although, you can teach them that they can be themselves around you.

My insides felt like seaweed. I walked next to her like a zombie through the crowds of people. I didn't see people, just dark fuzziness floating along the sidewalk. Eventually we came to a corner and ate. My head swam a few feet above my neck. She gave me the best advice that day, she barely said anything at all. The more we walked, the more my feet sunk back into the cement, the more all those times she was angry at me over being drunk weighed on my shoulders. Her just being there was sobering.

That night I returned to Venice drunk with my friends. It was a Sunday evening and the drum circle was going. Cassidy and I smoked and drank our way to the beach.

Cassidy's high school friend Sarkis joined us. Sarkis was an Armenian American. He had a very giggly demeanor, which could reverse at the drop of a hat... into a more passionate one. Two girls accompany us. One would end up being Sarkis' girlfriend a few months later, and then, eventually, wife and mother of their child. The other girl became a bartender.

When the night turned dark we stripped off our clothes and ran into the ocean. My teeth were chattering. It was not my most flattering moment; shriveled like a prune under the pale moon. We splashed each other like children in a pool. There was something oddly carefree and endless in the naked salty infinity of the pacific.

Somehow I drove us home. Somehow I always drove home. I always thought I was pretty good at it. It took me a little while to discover it was the most dangerous result of my behavior. My nature found its way to the mercy of so many others. Reflecting back on this now makes me grateful for all the souls that helped guide me through those nights.

Home that night wasn't my house. It was some obscure, generously two story house hidden by ivy in the heart of the suburbs. It was owned by the parents of one of the girls. The night continued innocently enough with more drinking and strip poker. Then, at one point, all of us lost memory. Casey told me it was because he thought Sarkis roofied the vodka. .

I woke up on the couch fully clothed with my arms clasped around my chest like a vampire. I bolted up like Frankenstein and stumbled around wondering where I was. I looked for my keys for about an hour. There was writing on the walls. In one room Sarkis laid sprawled naked on a beach raft laying sideways across the wooden planks of a bed frame. The mattress was resting on the wall upright. Cassidy was no where to be found. I finally came to the keys next to where I had woke with a note. "Here are your keys."